


Parsley Sage Rosemary and Thyme

by frumpkinisfae



Series: a true love of mine [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Dwarf & Hobbit Cultural Differences, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf Gender Concepts, Fluff, Hobbit Courting, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, Like actual mpreg, M/M, Mpreg, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Pregnancy, Reconciliation, Trans Bilbo Baggins, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Unplanned Pregnancy, with trans men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28424196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumpkinisfae/pseuds/frumpkinisfae
Summary: The battle is won, but the story isn't over. The rightful King Under the Mountain still recovers. Dwarves, Men, and Elves are still mending and straining old and new truces. The Erebor and Dale need to be rebuilt. As you can see, there's oh so much to do.And Bilbo? Well, Bilbo is well and truly tired of big folks' nonsense. It's time for reconciliation and moving onward. In fact, when Bilbo thinks about it he may not even be thinking about politics anymore. It's time to gather up his strength and to gather up his dwarves. Not just for himself, but the little surprise he picked up along the way.Well, this is just the start of a few more adventures.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Series: a true love of mine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081925
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	1. Cyprus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This is the first time posting Hobbit fanfiction on this account so I'm very excited to see how y'all enjoy this!
> 
> I have a basic outline and chapters prewritten, but since I am still writing the tags will evolve.
> 
> Please pay attention to warnings for each chapter! I will expand on warnings in the endnotes if need be, however, I don't intend for this fic to be particularly upsetting. This is a fix-it fic after all.
> 
> This fic will deal with recovering from trauma (physical/mental), cultural differences, xenophobia, transphobia, gender identities, pregnancy, and rebuilding a kingdom. I am very excited to play around with dwarf gender and give you all a peek into my ideas there. Also, I'm a trans man and Bilbo is a trans man in this fic and the dwarves will have different cultural gender presentations now that they are safe in Erebor. Gender is my toy and fiction is my playground.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Everything was quiet. The sky was bright in an empty and desolate sort of way. That sort of bright it gets after the night has frozen, and you wake to find the plants have all died.

Bilbo rubs his feet on the cold stone step, where he has been silently sitting all this time. Even the concrete feeling of the far too cold stone doesn’t jolt him back into his body like he hopes it would. It’s almost like his mind is drifting somewhere his body can’t quite reach. His eyes feel glazed. He has been staring off into the middle distance for a time he can’t quite pinpoint. Bilbo’s eyes haven’t shifted since he’d sat down, after being hurriedly pushed aside.

He wasn’t bitter, mind you. He understood that a wailing hobbit putzing around was the last thing people needed when rushing dying people to medicine tents. Maybe a different version of himself would have felt bitter, or at least a bit put out.

Bilbo had sat down on these two steps, which were just uncomfortably spaced apart that his knees were somewhat higher than is proper. Though who is he kidding, he gave up on propriety when he chased after a pack of dwarves.

An absurdly tall figure slowly comes into his field of vision. Bilbo doesn’t even have the presence of mind to follow him with his eyes. Gandalf stops his approach, and Bilbo doesn’t need to look at him to know that the wizard’s grey gaze is on him. The old man huffs and gingerly eases himself down onto the steps next to the hobbit. Pulling his pipe from within his cloak, he begins to clean it.

And, strangely, with each scrape of the bowl, Bilbo comes back into himself. Mayhaps because of a familiar sound, as both his mother and father were avid smokers of Old Toby, or just at the incessant scratching which would drive Bombur batty whenever Bilbo and Bofur sat down for a smoke. It’s been a while since they had the luxury.

He turns his head and sees the smiling face of the bumbling wizard from his childhood. Gandalf’s eyes crinkle, and his lips curl up in a smile as he lowers his pipe. The wizard doesn’t say anything wise or awe-inspiring. He just gives a soft grunt, as they turn back, gazing at where the battle took place.

“Do you think he’ll make it, Gandalf?” It’s more a breath than a question, floating through the still air.

Gandalf sighs, leaning back as he returns to cleaning the pipe, “Bilbo, my boy, nothing is certain. All there is to do now is wait.”

Bilbo gives a single nod and can almost feel his mind slipping back out into the air where it had been until he is shocked by Gandalf’s sudden move to stand.

“When I said we must wait, I did not mean here. There is all manner of wounded man, elf, and dwarf down there. I do intend to make both of us quite useful,” Gandalf noisily nestles his pipe back within his robes and grabs his staff, tapping it on the ground.

Bilbo gazes up at the old man, giving a smile that finally reaches his eyes, “I do believe you mean to make me useful whilst you pilfer some sort of elven vineyard for yourself.”

“Perish the thought! How ever did I gain such a foul reputation with hobbits?” Gandalf sputters.

“If I remember correctly, 1302 Shire Reckoning, you drank a good deal of Pearla’s wine the night before Egalantine’s coming of age,” humor seeps back into Bilbo. “A vintage saved especially for Old Took himself.”

Gandalf puffs himself up with comically squared shoulders and an over-exaggerated scowl, “Baseless accusations. I never stepped out of line. Gerontius is a good friend of mine. He often tells me that anything that is his is also mine.”

“I don’t believe that applies to wine.”

“You may be right, my boy. Of course, I hardly want someone swiping my own glass.”

At no fault of Gandalf’s, his throat swells up at the very mention of theft. His hands shake slightly. There are moments like this, even before this dreadful battle, where Bilbo cannot help the tremors. Where Bilbo feels all too far yet present in his body.

“He apologized to me,” Bilbo looks at his hands and truly notices for the first time the blood still under his nails. “He told me… He told me he took back what he said at the gate. He kept apologizing.”

The only noise for a while is the wizard’s breath.

A hand is held out in front of the hunched hobbit’s face, “Let us make it down the hill, my boy. The movement will do you some good, I think.”

Bilbo lingers for a moment before taking Gandalf’s hand to ease himself up. His feet are cold, and his legs are as unsteady as a foal’s. As he stands, his head rushes, and the world spins uncontrollably. There is barely any warning before he feels acid climbing up his throat.

Stomach bile splashes on the steps where he had just been sitting, steaming in the frigid air. Bilbo hacks up acid, his stomach empty of any food due to his nerves the days before, as the wizard’s wrinkled hands hold the hobbit steady as his body contorts. He cannot help the shame that has cropped up far too often in the past few days. Hobbits are not meant to spill their food, before or after eating it. 

When a few minutes have passed, Bilbo’s body is now just as tired as his mind as he takes pained breaths. The wizard eases Bilbo to return to standing straight, looking him up and down. His eyes are pensive for a moment, before returning to his typical befuddling cheer.

Bilbo clears his throat of the grime he feels has remained, “Please, Gandalf, do keep your long strides a bit shorter for me. I am, shall I say, bone tired.”

Gandalf chuckles, “I find myself fatigued as well, I would not mind a scenic walk down the side of the hill. If I may, we should make sure our journey ends at a healer’s tent.”

“You don’t have to be so roundabout. I’ll drop by. It will be nothing more than knocking upside the head. An orc came up in front of me and bashed me clean unconscious!” his head actually did smart a bit. “I’d knocked out a fair few orcs myself.”

Gandalf kept his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, holding him steady as they began the trek down the mountain, “Your swordwork has improved, I take it?”

“Maybe, but I didn’t use Sting,” he replies. “I threw rocks. It was quite like conkers, just a bit heavier.”

At that, Gandalf let out a bark of laughter, “You never cease to surprise me, my boy. Not at all.”

In the hours later, long after Bilbo bid goodbye to his tall friend who was needed for some wizard business by the two big folk rulers, Bilbo finds himself milling in and out among makeshift cots with blankets for the injured. As the sun was beginning to set, things were getting dreadfully cold in the ruins of Dale, where most of the wounded Elves and Men were being kept albeit with a few ailing Dwarves.

His arms were stacked tall with heavy cloths, so much so that he couldn’t see anything below his chin. Men, unfortunately, rarely moved out of his way. Bilbo has gotten used to the taller folk of the world at this point in his journey, keeping their sight squarely up and ahead. After all, the Men he’s met so far live in places where the streets are filled with filth and lack any flora whatsoever. Bilbo doesn’t quite like looking at the ground around here either.

Elves, or at least the ones doing the medicine work, readily notice him here, especially with his blanket bounty. Every Elf he’s run into seems to know some level of medicine, so Bilbo will admit he can’t honestly tell who was trained to be a medic. Perhaps all Elves are.

“Young lad!” An accented voice calls out.

“One moment!” At this point, Bilbo is trying to just interpret this as a compliment of how well the Baggins has aged at fifty-one years old.

He hurries over to the doorframe where a tall Elven person is holding out their hands. The Elf takes about three cloths off the pile before turning quickly back inside to tuck them around the small forms within the dilapidated house. Five children are curled up on cots or even the floor, some horribly still while others writhe on the ground.

The Elf doesn’t even turn to look at Bilbo again, too busy with their work, but does say, “Thank you so much. These children have been found without any parents, would you happen to recognize any of them? Played with them once back home?”

Bilbo gently drops his stack of blankets on the ground as he sees a young child caked with dirt and flecks of blood shivering on a pallet. He pulls his waterskin and Bofur’s “handkerchief” out, and begins to clean the muck from the child’s face.

“I’m sorry, sir, or ma’am, or... oh bother,” when at least all the blood is cleaned from the child’s face, he stands up and begins to clean some of the other children’s faces. “I’m an adult hobbit, and I went to Laketown once, but the only children I know are not here. I wish I could be of more help.”

The elf looks over at Bilbo briefly, “Apologies. The children are all stable, just dreadfully cold, and in a lot more pain than most children are used to. No grave wounds, but breaks and all the like. You can head on with your blankets, I need no more help than anyone else does.”

He nods in return, smoothing hair out of the face of the final child, before picking up his bounty once again and plotting through the snow.

It isn’t long before all of his blankets are dispensed. The men were thankful, and most handed the blankets to their women and children. Most men were injured in some form, be it bruises or more severe injuries, while the women and children seemed to end the battle relatively unscathed. However, misery clouded the streets, as many Men and Elves had fallen. The bodies at this point had been dragged to the side and covered. Far too many bodies for burial here. People say that the elves will be taking the bodies of their people back to the Mirkwood, but that’s neither here nor there.

With his job done, Bilbo hurries back to the tent where Bard and Thranduil’s people are handing out help or requesting odd jobs. Bilbo had already carried bandages, poultices, and rations to and fro, in an attempt to be as useful as possible. Gandalf has not yet left Thranduil’s tent since Bilbo had started, arguing with the king in a dialect of Sindarin that Bilbo didn’t really have the care to decipher.

As Bilbo crests the incline to the tent, he sees the aforementioned wizard ducking out of the tent. He slows down as Thranduil follows behind the wizard. In all honesty, Thranduil frightens Bilbo. Of the two big folk leaders, Bard is much preferred. Though Bilbo is entirely biased. One kept his friends in jail, and one kept them in his own house.

“Ah! Bilbo,” Gandalf holds his staff up in greeting. “I was on my way to find you. I would like to reintroduce you to King Thranduil on better terms.” He turns to the Elven-King. “This is Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins, favorite grandchild of the Thain of the Shire.”

Bilbo tilted his head down slightly, as he’d seen some elves do in Thranduil’s presence before, “Hardly the favorite Gandalf. Nonetheless, I am at your service, King Thranduil. Again, very sorry about the whole stealing the keys thing. To your credit, I was only able to do so since I was not locked in a cell. If I had been, I’m sure I would never have escaped!”

This is very uncomfortable. Bilbo felt as though Thranduil’s eyes were staring straight through his skin. His nose twitches in the silence.

“Mithrandir,” the Elven-King’s voice is steady yet questioning.

“Ah, Thranduil, I hoped you could assist Bilbo and I with a favor.” Gandalf interrupts whatever train of thought Thranduil had been beginning. “You see, Mister Baggins was struck in the head by an orc during the battle. While I do not doubt your healer’s expertise, Hobbits are quite different from Elves or Men, and I was hoping you could direct us to a healer who would be more understanding of a Hobbit.”

“It is a rare occurrence for any of my people to see a Halfling, so it is unlikely any of my healers will be attuned to any Halfling idiosyncrasies,” Regardless of Thranduil’s intent, he always manages to sound demeaning. “However the skill of my people is far and above that of most healers.”

There it is. Bilbo should be rather used to the whole “my kingdom is best at” rundown, but it grates his nerves a fair bit. Perhaps Bilbo is entirely biased, he most likely is, but when the Elven-King says something like this it reminds him of Lobelia bragging about her rutabaga. 

It strikes him entirely differently than his dwarves talking about the prowess of their mining or crafting. More like Hamfast talking about his cabbages. It's that warm pride rather than cold pride.

Then again, Bilbo has been irritated at the smallest things lately. So small it's hard to explain without sounding like an utter fool.

Bilbo smiles nervously, “If it were a, er, _Hobbit_ specific ailment, I don’t believe I would need a big folk opinion. No offense intended, I just don’t see an Elf getting the Grubb Toe Fungus.”

Utter fool indeed, “Apologies.”

The Elven-King’s eyebrow raises, “You are a very interesting creature.”

At that, Bilbo raises his head again to narrow his eyes at Thranduil. Even his visceral annoyance makes him sad, as he should be hearing snickers and hoots from some very intrusive friends.

“Thank you. You as well,” Bilbo relaxes his face. After all, it’s been far too long a day to care about some perceived insult. Or how lonely he feels.

“You may seek counsel from any of my healers once the most injured have been cared for,” he gestures to a gathering of tents in the opposite direction of the crowded streets Bilbo had assisted earlier.

“Why thank you Thranduil, in fact, I’m sure Bilbo can make himself useful to the healers in the meantime,” Gandalf thumps his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. The grey wizard then plods back into the tent followed by the ever unnerving king.

Bilbo’s neck is getting sore for all the conversations with big folk, “I wouldn’t mind that. Thank you, Your Majesty, and goodbye.”

With that, he bows his head and goes on his merry way.

Until nightfall, Bilbo works at the side of an Elf lady. She looks much the way Bilbo always imagined Elves to look in his mother’s stories, tall and thin as a twig with long braided hair. She’s kind and gentle, and tells Bilbo a fair few times that he can just sit down if he wants to after a day of movement starts to catch up. Eventually, he sits down and just preps for her and some other healers.

The Elven healers often seem like they know everything off the top of their head, however, Bilbo has recently wizened up to the fact that they often bring little tomes. He currently has one cracked open flipping back and forth on what of the herbs helpers collected earlier need to be juiced, mashed, bruised, or any array of preparations. He is currently grinding some kingsfoil with a mortar and pestle when she approaches.

“May I have a look at your head, Bilbo?” She pulls up a chair to him with a wetted cloth in her hand. Even though her face had stayed relatively calm whilst he’d been there, her brow was pinched. Her face is much more relaxed now, and her breathing smooth.

Bilbo tidies up his workstation, “Oh, yes. Tobril, are you sure you aren’t so busy?”

“Almost all our patients are stable and asleep,” She begins to gently wipe the dried blood and dirt from his forehead. “You have on occasion looked to be falling asleep as well, Master Hobbit.”

He can’t help but respond with a small laugh, “I suppose so. I could do with a kip!”

She smiles in return, giving him a glance of an endearing chipped tooth, “Can you tell me how you have fared since you took your fall?”

Gentle movements graze his head and the air is quiet but for the footsteps of other healers and snores of injured people, “Well, I’m quite tired, and I feel a bit dizzy every once in a while. I also, er, lost my breakfast earlier. Not very hobbitish of me, but not much lately has been.”

“It does sound like a rather bad fall. You lost consciousness, yes?”

“I did indeed. Missed the whole battle,” he shakes his head at the absurdity.

Tobril nods, “Bilbo, I hope I’m not overstepping, but that sounds to me like a bit of a blessing, even if it may not feel like it.”

“Believe me, Tobril, I would have thought that too if I hadn’t been so entirely useless,” he continues to fill the air as she discards the towel. “You see, hobbits are quite light on their feet. Almost snuck clean past a dragon! I could have,” saved them, “done much more.”

As if sensing the morose turn in thoughts, Tobril gently, if a bit awkwardly, pats Bilbo’s hand. She leans down to make eye contact, a move which Bilbo very much appreciates, and nods.

“I don’t believe you have lasting damage, Bilbo,” quietly, she breaks the silence. “Your eyes are standard. You have your wits about you. You have nodded or shaken your head a fair few times without feeling nauseous. Your wound is very superficial and I felt no knot or swelling. Honestly, it may have been the battle shock that took you.”

Entirely possible, he was after all, absolutely terrified on Ravenhill, “Mayhaps, however, a Hobbit never loses their meal, breakfast or otherwise. I’ve only ever done it when I was very ill as a faunt and a few recent incidents.”

Tobril looks concerned for a moment, “Can you tell me more about that? Is it a social expectation or a physical truth?”

“A little of both in all honesty. Well, the past few days I’ve woken up and had to grab a bucket, very embarrassing. I’ve been very fatigued lately, a journey catches up to you, so the sudden wake up is all the more irritating. The burn cream Oin gave me smells absolutely dreadful too.”

“Do you take any tonics or drink any medicinal teas that might have conflicted with that cream?” Tobril leans over the table to grab a medicinal guide Bilbo had been referencing for the herb preparation.

Bilbo looked around briefly, checking if anyone was lingering, “I drink an Astreswess tea every morning and evening. A friend of my mother taught me how to make it.”

“I take it you are twice-born?” Tobril smiles soothingly.

“If that’s what you would like to call it.”

“Have you recently ever forgotten to take it?”

“A fair few times. The last month or so, unfortunately, I lost my tea rather early on in Mir- Greenwood. That will happen when you’re on the run! Tea becomes a little bit of a second thought, even very important tea,” Bilbo thinks back to Greenwood, and how dreadful his body felt without the tea. Bilbo had before gone a few weeks without the tea in his youth for one reason or another and faced horrible sweats and flushing. Even with rest in Bard’s abode later, and the very caring touch of someone dear, it took him the better half of that week to feel any better. 

“Bilbo, can I ask you a strange question?” She bites her bottom lip, obviously nervous.

“Yes?”

Tobril clears her throat before whispering, “Did you lay with anyone without your tea?”

Aghast, Bilbo practically chokes on his own spit. He comes down in a coughing spree that unfortunately awakens one of their patients. Tobril eases the poor man back to sleep as Bilbo tries to take deep breaths.

Once he recovers from the shock, he realizes why she was asking, “Oh dear, oh my, do you think-”

Tobril looks over her shoulder, “We will test first. Bilbo, please wait until a test to worry either way.”

For the next few minutes, Bilbo’s mind is as anxious as it is empty. The detachment from the afternoon has returned. Tobril had taken the mortar and pestle from him and began grinding down rock shards that another healer had on her. He had only heard from his mother of this rock, since most Hobbits have no need of it. However, his mother had been taught how to use this rock by one of her dear friends from Rivendell to see if she was carrying a child since she never had reliable monthlies.

Bilbo could hardly fathom it. His brain is numb, but his hands are shaking. All he could do is try to desperately piece together what is happening.

“Bilbo?” The healer’s clear voice breaks through his turning mind. “I need you to… relieve yourself in this.”

She passes to him a small wooden bowl filled with the chalky substance. A couple of minutes later, he returns with the bowl, unable to help his embarrassment. She comforts him with platitudes, but Bilbo hardly hears. He’s just hoping it doesn’t bubble.

Minutes pass. Bilbo begins to feel a creeping sense of relief, before he hears a very faint hissing noise.

“Bilbo,” Tobril does not show him the bowl, but he knows. The bowl is fizzing.

He’s pregnant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter Bilbo will begin processing this, we'll meet the dwarves again, and see how the royal triad is doing!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Please drop kudos or comments if so, they brighten my day.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> In my mind, Hobbits do not really vomit or feel nauseous during pregnancy (or at all) so that's why Bilbo is a bit slow on the draw. Hobbits instead get very hungry and horny. Carrying a dwobbit will combine a lot of symptoms!
> 
> Astreswess is my fictional HRT, specifical testosterone. It's commonly used as a contraceptive in small doses by Elves and masculinization hormone therapy in large doses. It affects all the races differently, but Elrond was able to help out Belladonna through letters when her son came out. 
> 
> In history, a pregnancy test with some accuracy was combining urine and calcium carbonate. The HCG would cause it to fizz, so that's what I'm playing with here. I didn't wanna do the frog one, that just makes me sad.
> 
> The term I use here "twice born" is my own idea of a general term for trans people in middle earth. Elves wait until adulthood to even really think about gender and even then it's not really a thing. Humans are another story. Hobbits don't have a word for trans people, or at least not one that's nice. 
> 
> If you want more info on dwarf gender in this fic, please check out the other work in this series! Its just a general appendix about dwarf gender and how I believe our dwarves would identify.
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading!!


	2. Geranium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, it's been a bit. Hoped to get this out earlier but 2021 started with a bang, huh? Anyway, it's time for Bilbo to do some thinking, and maybe go see his dwarves.
> 
> If you need warnings, there are mentions of dysphoria, minor expression of dysphoria, accidental but ultimately pleasant outing, mentions of fertility issues, vague allusions to miscarriage, and a brief panic attack. This fic will have a smattering of all of these topics, so if that will upset you please be careful!
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments on the first chapter! I hope you enjoy this one.

Bilbo and Tobril stand in silence for a few minutes, underscored by the fizzing and plaintive moans throughout the tents. Tobril’s face is impassive, and Bilbo himself is well and truly stunned.

In fact, it doesn’t feel real. The unfeeling from earlier has crept back, or rather, hit him completely upside the head. So much so that as he looks down to see hands, it takes him a few moments longer than it should to realize that those are his own hands. Shaking ever so slightly and buzzing like a bumblebee.

“Tobril?” He clears his throat before squeaking out, “I do believe I’m going to faint.”

And so he did.

Just about a moment later Bilbo finds himself sat up in a chair with a moist towel on his head and a blanket tucked around his middle. Tobril is nowhere to be seen, instead replaced by a far more familiar big folk.

“Ah! Bilbo, my boy,” Gandalf puffs out around the bit of his pipe. “Took a bit of a fall again I heard.”

He sighs, still a bit dizzy, “Yes, I always had a quite weak constitution.”

“Bah, well, maybe so, but regardless you made it all the way here,” he points his pipe at the hobbit emphatically. “Constitution or no, you are a hardy fellow.”

“You are being queerly inspirational,” he glares at the wizard. “What are you getting at?”

Gandalf nods with a smirk before his face smooths out into a more somber expression. Leaning forward out of his frankly recumbent pose, the large wizard leans toward Bilbo. He gingerly tamps out his pipe before wrapping it in a piece of leather, settling it in his lap.

“Well, a very serious Elf medic approached me. She said you had mentioned journeying with me and asked if I could spend some time with you. Told me you were in a delicate condition,” Gandalf then makes his way toward his friend, resting a hand on the chair. “Of course, she respected your privacy, but thought that this ailment would be best eased by a friend.”

“Ah, well I-” Bilbo begins and abruptly reconsiders.

How does one explain this? It’s not as simple as an ‘I’m pregnant,’ at least not for Bilbo. Lads just don’t get pregnant. That is absolutely not how it works. He has done his best to be a proper Hobbit lad as much as he could and now… it feels as though it's all for naught.

You see, Bilbo nowadays passes for a male Hobbit, albeit a fair bit younger than he truly is, but now, there will be no way he could hide it. Any man, elf, or dwarf would take one look at him and know. 

Is he nothing more than that? No matter what he does there will always be someone who sees him as a lass.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

A memory comes to mind of an afternoon on their journey. Bilbo had been taking a very secluded bath while the others were cooking or enjoying their meals. He had just picked up his soap when Bofur came plodding through the brush. Bilbo had rushed to cover up, but there’s only so much you can do. Dear Bofur averted his gaze explaining that to dwarves nakedness is nothing shameful but he didn’t want to put Bilbo out. Bilbo was distraught and asked Bofur if he’d keep it a secret. To his surprise, it took a bit of explanation on what he meant to be secret. 

Bofur had said, “Oh! Lad, we dwarves aren’t like Men or Hobbits. There are no lads and lassies inside the mountain, just dwarves with any part attached.”

Bofur himself had similarly queer circumstances, but it was only ever an issue with Men. Bofur invited him to talk to Nori, who in Khuzdul made it no secret what “plumbing” he had.

It was the first time Bilbo had ever met someone like him. Even though he never told most other dwarves, knowing that if he did they would likely not even care made him feel safe. And when he found someone that loved him, all of him, not even despite these misfit puzzle pieces…

It felt like home in a way that Bag End hadn’t in years. It felt like family.

Bilbo had always wanted a family.

“Gandalf, I want to see my dwarves,” Bilbo’s body grew steady and warm again. 

The great old man nods slowly, “I am glad you’ve found the courage to return, then. However, Bilbo if you truly aren’t well maybe it would be best if you remain here. The Elves of Greenwood may not be quite on Elrond’s level of healing prowess, but they-”

Loudly clearing his throat, Bilbo stops his blathering, “Gandalf, I’m not dying.”

To his surprise, the wizard genuinely sighs in relief, “I would have appreciated learning that a bit earlier dear boy.”

“I will admit, I’ve been rather in my head,” he takes Gandalf’s large wrinkled hand in his. “I’m ever so sorry I made you think I was on the way out. Though I don’t blame you. Seeing a Hobbit lose their lunch? Awfully morbid.”

Gandalf gave an answering chuckle as Bilbo continued, “I am, well, I don’t very much know how to say this. Yes, I am in a delicate condition, but a condition that half of Hobbits are in quite often. I am not quite ready to speak about it in more frank terms so I hope your wizened old brain can puzzle that one out.”

The wizard raises his other hand on top of Bilbo’s hand, already clasped in his left. His discerning eye sweeps up and down the fatigued Hobbit as if deciphering a very important document. After lingering on the blanket-covered stomach, his gaze meets Bilbo’s once again.

A smile Bilbo recognizes plays across Gandalf’s face. He has seen it two times before. Once, when he asked the magic man to turn him into a real lad, and another when he asked his mother asked her dear friend to come around more often. It's bittersweet in the way that only someone who has seen a good deal of love and tragedy can manage.

Then he claps, and suddenly stands, “Well, if I remember correctly, Hobbits in your way do best with family in tow. Let us find some lodging for the night and make off to the Dwarven camps at daybreak.”

“I would rather like to see them now,” he screws up his face before gingerly rising, throwing the blanket over his shoulder.

“Without speaking too much on sensitive subjects, your mother had a very difficult time carrying,” Gandalf says in a low voice. “Good sleep, good food, and low stress will keep you hale. We do not yet know how the bulk of Dwarves will greet you after the, shall we say, incident at the gate. I will not bring you into that danger without some preparation.”

Bilbo blinked incredulously, “You brought me on a very dangerous quest, Gandalf, and suddenly you think about safety?”

The cheeky old fool gives a wink, picks up his pipe, and trots out of the tent. Answering with a belabored sigh, Bilbo takes a moment to pull out a piece of scratch paper and a pen from the work desk he’d spent the day on. He writes a simple letter of thanks to Tobril and invites her to tea without quite thinking about it.

“Alright, Mister Wise and All-Knowing Wizard, let’s find ourselves some supper.”

It is not until the next morning when Bilbo blinks blearily awake that he realizes how bone deeply tired he has been. Days without much sleep at all compounded on each other so heavily that when Bilbo awakes, he feels much like a faunt awoken from a deep nap. Drool is crusted on his lips and his mouth tastes tangy with sleep.

The light that filters into the dilapidated room he found is bright in a way that is lightly misted. On the light air is the ever so slight smell of smoke, from campfires mayhaps or the last smolders of trees and buildings. He hears the vague rumblings of others moving and cartwheels thunking on the uneven cobblestone. He hopes that this all bodes a slightly more pleasant day.

He’s quite confused why he woke up at all if his sleep was so heavy and the light was somewhat dappled before he notices bile rising in his throat. Flinging himself out of his bundle of blankets he grabs a decimated piece of pottery and empties the contents of his stomach. After a minute or so of retching, Bilbo sits back and sighs. Then, his stomach growls, apparently hungry.

“How unhobbitish!” Bilbo scolds his belly. “I would much appreciate it if you would make up your mind on if I should eat or not.”

Chuckling at the absurdity, he soon pauses to realize that in some way the first thing he ever said to his child was a chastisement. Does that mean anything? For some absurd reason, he feels guilty. 

“Oh, alright, well, hm,” it feels silly to talk to something that doesn’t really exist. Especially something that may not exist for long.

“That’s awfully morbid,” he mutters. “Look little sprout, it's just you and I so I will be entirely honest. I still don’t believe you exist, even though I know you exist. But please know that any qualms I have about this endeavor is far less related to you and far more related to how others will look at me.”

Bilbo sighs and looks up at the light flitting in as he awkwardly pats his belly. It looks nothing like the lasses when they carry. It is very early in the whole process, but even then he has lost almost the entirety of his plumpness on this quest. It didn’t quite matter on his own, but now that another creature may need that help… Bilbo stops that thought before it finishes.

He is still feeling on one hand a bit strange but on the other now that he is beginning to talk to this child, he feels the need to continue, “You see, my mother always struggled with carrying. Even when she had me, it was difficult and a bit too early, so you may not take. It is absolutely nothing personal, and, I suppose, well, I may try to keep you. So, hold on until I decide what to do with you.”

With that, Bilbo stands, adjusts his ruffled clothes, and ventures off to breakfast. Bilbo prides himself on being a good host, so it's time to find something that’ll keep his very small guest happy.

After enjoying unleavened bread from the mess-tent and chickweed he foraged between the cobblestones, his stomach gratefully settles. As he munches on the dregs, he weaves in between the big folk looking for his disappearance prone friend. Once again he finds his way to Thranduil’s unnecessarily decorative tent and hears Gandalf’s booming voice. While muffled through the fabric, he seems quite displeased.

When a hobbit walks up on a row, the common courtesy is to knock. The question is, how do you knock on a tent.

“Oh, bother it all,” Bilbo grumbles out before turning on his heels and walking back the way he came. If Gandalf must talk with Thranduil again, Bilbo has no desire to interrupt this meeting. Of the Elf lord’s Bilbo has met, Thranduil is certainly the most irritating. However, that may not hold much weight as he’s only ever met two.

As he makes his way to the edge of the Elf and Man camp, he reflects on his time at Rivendell. The dinner on their first night, while originally quite mortifying, is an incredibly fond moment now. The disdain for leafy greens, the dancing on the table, and the total lack of self-consciousness. It makes him dreadfully nostalgic. That nostalgia makes him walk a good deal faster.

Eventually, he makes it to the edge of Dale and stands at the beginning of the long stone bridge. All along it, Elven soldiers stand stoic, observing Bilbo without moving. It’s a bit distressing, like passing by far too realistic statues, or the portrait of the late Thain in Old Took’s office which Bilbo swears is haunted. How else would the eyes follow you like that?

“Begging your pardon, sers. Is something the matter?” Bilbo asks as politely as possible, coming to a stop between two of the first guards.

One of the elves tilts their head down to look at Bilbo, “A precaution. King Thranduil warns that the dwarves are still unruly.”

Bilbo scoffs, “Oh, pooh, they’re no more unruly than you all are pompous. Forgive the lack of tact, but I have been rather grumpy lately, and all you folks’ posturing and tittle-tattling about each other is frankly childish. Now, it may not be your fault, this is your job after all and he’s your king, but do take a moment to think deeper about it all. Regardless, thank you for your protection and service, all of you, and please do your best to stay safe.”

As he trots onward, he gives the fatigued elves a grateful smile and reciprocates their nods. Before his dwarves, maybe he would have berated himself for lecturing, but he finds he doesn’t care. He’s been feeling rather protective lately, though less in the way of a handsome warrior and more in the way of a gardener defending his begonias.

“Well, we all have our own ways,” he mumbles to himself as he begins trekking across the arid clearing, trying to keep his gaze upward all while avoiding tripping over the debris, shall we say.

As he walks, the grounds thankfully clear and he sees tents and lean-to’s growing closer and closer. Flags flutter in the air around a makeshift wall. All around he can see stocky figures bustling around and hears a growing hum of many deep voices in conversation. He smells smoke, but smoke tinged with spices mixed with meats. He hears loud impacts of metal and stone and a simple steady chant.

Bilbo’s heart begins fluttering, and he’s surprised by the tears cloying his eyes. While joy grows and his pace grows to a jog, it's only a moment before he slows to a stop.

Bilbo was banished. Proclaimed a thief. Held over the gates as a traitor. 

His throat tightens, and he begins to choke on his breath. His legs begin rattling like a wind chime, demanding he sits straight on his bum. Pain radiates from his heart through his whole chest. He hears himself take gasping breaths. It’s freezing out, and yet he begins to sweat.

What will he do? Will they even take him in? Accept him? Would they chase him down? Can he even see his friends?

And then his heart cries out again as he realizes he does not even know if his friends all lived. His thoughts circle through, again and again, dizzying him close to fainting.

Then there’s the crunch of gravel nearby.

“Bilbo?” a very familiar voice calls out. “Mate? Is that you?”

Slowly, he lifts his face from his hands and looks up to see Nori, bruised and scraped, but generally whole and hale. His typically flat or cocky face is awash with shock and concern. The tall dwarf kneels, meeting his hunched over hobbit friend face to face. 

He clasps Bilbo’s shoulder with his gloved hand, and just holds onto him for a moment, “We thought you'd left.”

Bilbo shakes his head fervently, as he desperately grabs Nori’s arm. He feels grounded here, in a way he hadn’t in days.

“Are you in panic? Breathe with me?” Nori’s voice is tempered and quiet, yet it pierces through Bilbo’s foggy mind. Once again, Bilbo nods through a sob, still taking such wretched breaths.

And they stay there for a while, Nori mostly silent but for a few reminders and instructions. Bilbo slowly reaches a manageable level of nerves. Nori gives him one more pat before standing up, reaching a hand out to lift him up. He takes it gratefully, dusting himself off and looking back over to the camp.

“You made the guards antsy, you know,” Nori smirks, taking a few steps toward the camp. “Lone wanderer creeping up. Didn’t know what to make of you.”

It’s hard for Bilbo to imagine a legion of dwarves drawn up into a tizzy because of a small speck tripping around rocks and debris. Well, maybe not too hard, he tends to ruffle dwarven feathers.

He snorts, “Most people don’t know what to do with me. Wouldn’t Dwalin have recognized me? I mean, I don’t look much like an elf or orc, I hope.”

“Nah, you look like a wee bairn,” Nori snickers as Bilbo lightly slaps his arm, before taking a deep breath. “Dwalin isn’t guarding the camp either. He’s outside the tent. Won’t leave.”

The tent. Where the boys are. Where he is.

“I need to be there.”

As they reach the edge of the camp, Nori states, “We’re in earshot. Talk later.”

The camp is everything that Bilbo expected. Surrounded by dwarves brandishing weapons, standing strong and enduring. Hundreds of tents are pulled together of slapdash cloth yet built sturdy reinforced with wood or metal poles. Voices ring out in chants, keeping time and covering sounds of pain.

The two of them walk past guards who eye Bilbo with confusion and suspicion, tempered with some recognition of Nori. They pass through the cramped walkways between tents, and now Bilbo can begin to see the multitude of dwarves who survived. Ranges of faces and complexions he recognizes from his companions and a lot he doesn’t. He hears shouts and grunts of Khuzdul, which turn to whispers when he passes.

From dwarf to dwarf he universally is stared at, yet some with fascination, some with suspicion, contempt, anger, and some with excitement.

“What do they think of me?” Bilbo whispers, feeling claustrophobic under the stares.

Nori sighs, guiding Bilbo through the maze of fortifications and tents, “Depends. There are about seven stories about you now. Good, bad, and ugly. Working on it by the way. Still a bit occupied with some other rumors.”

“Can I have a sample?” Bilbo asks.

“Will you fall into panic again?” Nori is blunt as ever.

“Can’t guarantee I won’t.”

Nori nods decisively before turning Bilbo around a left corner and tugging him into a clearing.

Bilbo’s heart nearly bursts at what he sees.

Half of his precious dwarves are gathered around a sluggish fire. They all look worn yet alive. Bombur and Dori are kneading away at dough on an upside-down pot. Bombur fixated on the task while Dori’s gaze keeps flicking to where Ori leans into Bofur’s side. The younger Yofurul is patting the youngest dwarf’s back in comfort who has his book clasped to his chest. Reclined next to them is Bifur, who seems to be napping with a surprising change.

“Where’s your axe gone?” Bilbo blurts out before he can think better of it.

All heads turn toward him, faces filled with joy and a fair deal of surprise. That is when Bilbo well and truly starts blubbering.

It feels like hours he spends, greeting each of these dwarves, checking their injuries, clasping them tightly. He’s hugged and squished enough that he’d almost worry his new passenger would pop out from the pressure. He’s held against Bombur’s soft belly, and in Dori’s strong arms. He grasps Bifur’s arm and clasps young Ori’s face and they lean their foreheads together. The Bofur pulls him in for one of the longest hugs he’s ever had the pleasure of partaking in.

Thankfully, most of these lot are fine. Poor Ori’s arm was broken, thankfully not his writing one. Bombur has a gash that Dori sewed up well. Bofur’s right ear was lopped off, and his face is now wrapped in bandages. Dori suffered a few hits and contusions but is better off than the rest. Finally, dear Bifur’s axe is well and truly gone, and he’s in a bit of shock.

Everyone is chatting with happiness, a much better state than he arrived. Bilbo takes a seat, beginning to feel the fatigue from the journey and all the emotion. Immediately, Bofur sits right next to him, ever the tactile friend. He slings his arm over the smaller shoulder, holding him steady. Bilbo is filled with warmth, of the emotional and physical kind.

“So where is everyone else?” Bilbo asks, and immediately the pleasant mood shrivels like a sun-scorched grape.

“Balin and Gloin are up with Dain,” Dori gestures up the hill toward the gates, where a few more tents are set. 

Bombur chimes in as he punches the dough flat again, “Balin and Gloin have the most noble know-how. They’re trying to make sure this all works out. Keep the people safe, fed, pleased. Keeping the peace so to speak.”

“Oin’s been in and out of tents,” Bofur adds. “Haven’t seen him much beyond that. Same with Dwalin, but he’s been in the same place the whole time.”

The quiet settles back in. Some were conveniently left out.

“I need to see them. See him.”

Their gazes flick back to him. His dwarves’ faces are varying levels of dismayed or resigned. He feels Bofur gently turn to face him. He looks into the eyes of what may be his very best friend. Bofur’s eyes are bloodshot, his face worn and half obstructed. All he sees is care and pity.

“No one can see them, Bilbo,” Bofur keeps his voice incredibly even.

Bilbo shakes his head, “That’s ridiculous. There has to be people healing them. Helping him. Even then, he needs to have visitors. You can’t be alone, it's not right, not healthy.”

“Oin is with him, Bilbo,” Dori’s voice reminds him of a grandmother telling a children’s story. “Just no one else but Dain or Balin is allowed inside. It’s a matter of security.”

“Security?”

“He’s weak, they all are,” he’s pulled a bit closer into Bofur’s side.

“Wouldn’t be hard to kill ‘em,” Nori adds. Dori immediately admonishes him. It would be funny if it weren’t about this.

Bilbo looks up, into each of his dwarves’ faces, “But he’s- I love him. I need to be there. He’ll be scared and confused, and lonely. He won’t say it but he will, and I can’t leave him like that.”

His plea hangs in the air as the whole of them look at him and back at each other as if silently conferring. As they do, Nori slowly makes his way to the fire and stokes the embers. He raises his hand, appearing to adjust his hair, but their crew is wiser to the meaning. He’s using their signal for “being followed/watched.”

Indeed they are. Through tent flaps and corridors, dwarves of the Iron Hills have their sights on them.

Dori steps forward, “Bilbo, I hate to say it, but you cannot go. No one can.”

Now he says it, but as he raises his hand to clasp Bilbo’s other shoulder, his fingers play out the “advance” sign. The other dwarves nod, and now Bilbo can see the wisp of hopeful smiles twisting on their lips.

Overwhelmed by the emotion, knowing his friends are encouraging him to try and that he’s so close to this moment he sorely needs, he twists himself into Bofur. Burying his face in his friend’s shoulder and just whispering his thanks.

Again and again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for Bilbo to get sneaky! He's very worn out. He walked a mile, had a panic attack, got hugged by Bombur. He needs a good hug. Bofur is good at hugs.
> 
> I am a sucker for the dwarves and reunions, so I want to give each of them some time in the narrative. The pacing may be off from other post-botfa fics you've read since they typically skip this part, but I plan for this to be a somewhat long story. I hope you like it because we will get to romance and family fluff in the next few chapters, but I'm a found family man until I die. Political and cultural stuff will start the next chapter too!
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> Bilbo is just a little bit dissociated from the whole pregnancy thing right now, but not upset as you can see. We'll see how that goes.
> 
> I think in the shire they call fetuses by "little sprout" or "sapling," so it's not a very individual nickname that Bilbo is using right now, but that may change when his passenger gets some personality.
> 
> Ser is a gender-neutral version of sir or lady that's specifically associated with knights or warriors etc. from what I've seen. 
> 
> Nori is good with panic attacks because Ori has a few of them, and he's met many a dwarf with PTSD.
> 
> Bairn means child in a few dialects and languages. It's another short joke, sorry Bilbo.
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading! I appreciate kudos and comments!! They give me such inspiration, and who knows, maybe I'll be swayed by your comments as the story continues. After all, I'm only a chapter or two ahead at any time.


End file.
